Perfect
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: No clue where I'm going with this story, so just read and find out
1. Author's Note

Author's Note: This is based off Susan Kay's novel 'Phantom' which centers around Erik's life before and up to the events of the original novel with some elements of the Broadway musical thrown in. There is no connection to the movie, I'm a purist, so I stick to the musical with Michael Crawford, the original novel by Gaston Leroux, and Susan Kay's work. We all have our own versions of Erik, so do not tell me he's out of character. He is as I write him, as I see him. You are entitled to your opinion as to how he should be, but please do not tell me your views on him. I'm not interested. Bear in mind, Erik and the Phantom are two very different entities, the Phantom is the façade of strength he presents to the world to hide his vulnerabilities. Inside, he is not pure strength, he is fragile and can be easily hurt or broken. Christine's departure shattered his heart and left him broken and alone, lost in despair and hopelessness. Only on the surface is he like coffee, strong and dark, inside, hidden from others, he's got some cream and sugar in him. Those who insist he is strong and not weak, would cry or sink into self-pity are as bad as Christine: seeing only what's on the surface and not looking within. Erik is a tortured soul, full of hurt and sorrow, easily confused and moved to tears by simple kindnesses everyone else takes for granted.


	2. Old Aquaintance

Once upon a time, she'd been a vision of beauty, with golden curling tresses, porcelain skin without the slightest hint of imperfection, and eyes clear and blue as crystal. Her husband had been a young architect, full of potential and destined to make a name for himself, a handsome young man with waving black hair and a well-chiseled face. The pair made a lovely couple, but Fate did not seem to smile on their union as her beloved husband Charles died in an accident on the site a mere six months after they'd wed. He in his mid-twenties, she barely seventeen years and six months pregnant, she was widowed young and vowed to name their child after him should it be a son. Yet still, destiny seemed not in her favor for the child she expected to be as beautiful as his parents was born with a horrifying deformity. He'd been expected to die soon after birth or that his mind be as poorly developed as his face. Neither came to pass as the child survived infancy and past childhood, his intelligence far beyond what had been expected of him, quickly becoming clear he was a prodigy. He was playing his mother's piano and composing his own pieces at an age when she had been clumsily plinking away at the ivory and struggling with the simplest pieces. His deformity alone had earned her neglect and hate, his uncanny intelligence and unrivaled talent increased those feelings. He was only nine when she'd finally outgrown such juvenile trivialities and saw only her son whom she'd finally learned to love more than herself. But by then it was too late, driven by a longing to be loved and a fear she would send him away to an asylum, he'd fled in the middle of the night.

She'd spent hours, days, searching for him in vain, aided by the only two friends that had remained at her side after the birth of her son, Mlle. Perrault, a childhood friend and M. Lefevre, a former beau. No sign of him was ever found, she spent the next decades praying someday he'd come home, refusing to discard of anything that reminded her of him. Hours spent looking over his sketches and compositions, trying to recall his angelic voice, clinging to the only things she'd had left to remind her of him. Now, little more than forty years later, she stood, looking up at the Opera Populaire in the heart of Paris. No longer was her porcelain skin flawless or her hair golden, but the years had been kind to her, Madeleine remained a vision even in her sixties, hair pure white threaded with strands of silver, ice blue eyes filled with a wisdom that hadn't existed when she'd married and borne her only child. Her old friend, Lefevre, had pleaded with her to leave her home outside Rouen and come to Paris, having come out of retirement temporarily at the behest of Andre and Firmin. It was a week after Piangi had been murdered on stage during a live performance and Christine kidnapped before an entire audience. With her lover dead, Carlotta refused to return to the opera house, leaving them without a prima donna. The two current managers had begged Lefevre to return to help them clear up the mess with the Opera Ghost and find a new prima donna.

He'd returned, his mind going back to a time long ago when his old friend, a lovely young woman who'd held such promise as a prima donna herself, had argued with the tutor who came to educate her son over the best location for a new opera house in Paris. Lefevre and the child had exchanged a look that made it clear they had the same idea, one that differed from his tutor's and his mother's: the best place for a new opera house was in the heart of the city. So, Lefevre had written his old paramour, encouraging her to at least audition for the part, he knew she still sang to fill the emptiness and silence of her home, knew her voice was still clear as a bell and lovely as ever. However, he said nothing to her about the Phantom or what he knew of him. No sign had been seen of the Opera Ghost since that night, if the mob had gone hunting for him had found him, they'd said nothing of it. This was why Lefevre had returned with hardly a second thought, to discover what had happened to the Phantom, out of concern for the man that haunted the Opera Populaire. The Ghost had been there since Lefevre had first taken up his post as manager, had stumbled across him in the middle of the night before the opera house had opened. The moment he'd set eyes on him, he was quite sure the man had recognized him, it was likely the only thing that had kept Lefevre from falling victim to the notorious Punjab Lasso. His eyes had locked with those ice blue orbs and he'd felt quite sure he was staring back at Madeleine's lost little boy, now well over six feet tall, his mask specially made to cover only the deformed right side of his face, and his skeletal form clad in an expensive black suit and long velvet cloak.

"Erik…?" he'd muttered.

"Monsieur Lefevre," the man had answered, confirming Lefevre's suspicions.

After so many years, he'd found her lost child in one of the least expected places, truth be told he'd felt certain the boy had perished long ago, likely to exposure or starvation. He'd always cared for the poor child, it was why he gave into the Ghost's every demand without argument and why he so readily gave him his monthly salary, to ensure he remained safe and taken care of. He'd warned Andre and Firmin that life would be easier if they simply did as he asked, that the Phantom could be benevolent and cordial if he was appeased, but they'd steadfastly refused to give in. Now tragedy had struck, Miss Daae had left with _le vicomte_, and Erik had not been seen or heard from in a week. Andre and Firmin saw this as a welcome respite but it was cause for concern to Lefevre, but he would say nothing yet to Madeleine of the real reason he'd asked her to come. But he knew he had to tell her, he'd kept Erik's secret far too long for reasons he still couldn't fathom. Lefevre waited patiently on the steps to the opera house as a hansom came to a halt, the door swung open and Madeleine stepped out and made her way up the steps to him, a smile on her face when she looked at him.

"Monsieur Lefevre," she said, "It's been too long."

"Indeed, it has," he returned her smile, "I trust you've been well."

"As well can be expected," she replied.

"How was your journey?" he asked.

"Oh, dreadful!" was the answer, "It was raining most of the way."

"Well, I shan't keep you long. Messieurs Andre and Firmin are expecting you."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"I wish you luck on your audition."

"My dear Lefevre, I'll hardly need it."

"Oh, Madeleine, I've a splendid idea. Perhaps we can meet for dinner, catch up."

"Wonderful, I look forward to it."

"Good, shall we meet here around six this evening, say on the rooftop? You simply must see it, the view is breathtaking from there."

"Marvelous, darling, until then."

"_A bientot_."


	3. Lost

The audition went well, Madeleine could hardly have expected less, with Erik gone, music was all she had left to fill the void left by his absence. Firmin and Andre had seemed charming enough, the interior was as beautiful as, if not more so, the exterior, she only wished Charles could have been alive to see it. More to the point, she wondered how Erik would've felt if he'd seen this magnificent structure, architecture and music had been the child's passions. She smiled as she recalled a debate she'd had with Erik's tutor Professor Guizot over where the new opera house should've been built. After he'd left as she walked past Erik he'd heard a slight murmur that he felt they were both wrong and the opera house should've been in the center of the city, where it stood today. She spent a couple of hours enjoying the sites of Paris before making her way to the rooftop to meet with Lefevre. He stood at the balustrade just before the statue that topped the Opera Populaire, glancing out over the city; he'd been right, the view was magnificent.

"Monsieur Lefevre," she greeted him.

"Ah, Madeleine, right on time," he replied, but something in the way he'd said it seemed off.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Madeleine," he sighed, "I asked you here in the hopes that you would indeed audition for prima donna, but I confess I had an ulterior motive. There is something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you quite some time ago. I'm sure you've already heard the whispers about the Opera Ghost?"

"I have," she confirmed, "How long has this Ghost been around?"

"Since I took this position," he answered, "Andre and Firmin find him a bother. He has always requested a salary of 80,000 francs a month, easily manageable with our former benefactor, and the reservation of Box Five, simple enough. So long as such conditions were met, things remained quiet and simple enough. His terms were even outlined in the contract. He would occasionally make recommendations as to new singers, musicians, etc, or as to anyone that was not fulfilling their role adequately. His recommendations were nearly always perfect. The ballet mistress was close to him, he'd convinced me to promote her daughter to leader of the row."

"Did anyone see him?"

"No, save for some unfortunate few he'd make swear never to speak of what they'd seen."

"Then how did he contact you?"

"Notes, he'd leave them in the office or Box Five. Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, would deliver the ones left in his box. So long as his….terms were met, he was quiet, nothing went wrong, everything remained perfect. The current managers have discovered the hard way what happens when he's displeased. I've had occasion to speak with Charles Garnier and mentioned this Opera Ghost, he suspected it may very well be an architect that worked with him and proved integral in keeping the Opera Populaire alive. Said the man was ingenious."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Madeleine," Lefevre paused, taking a deep breath, "I came across him one night a week or so before we opened to the public. I felt like I knew him from somewhere, the name Erik slipped past my lips and he looked at me and greeted me by name. Madeleine…. Your son is the Opera Ghost, Erik is the Phantom."

"Erik?" she gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes, "He's here?"

"He is, but-"

"You must fetch him, I have to see for myself!"

"Madeleine, no one has seen or heard from him in the last week, nothing at all. The managers are relieved to have a respite and seem quite sure that he is gone for good, which worries me. I fear something may be terribly wrong."

"Then tell me where he is, where he hides, I will-"

"Madeleine, I can't-"

"Can't? You've said you worry for his well-being, then I will go to him! He haunts these halls, he must make his home here somewhere! Only tell me where he hides so that I may see him!"

"Madeleine, I don't know where he hides, where he could've made a home for himself. Madame Giry, she was his confidante, she knows where he hides. Come, she is most likely still here."

Madame Giry was the stern ballet mistress, a woman no one, not even the managers, crossed. A proud woman, she'd once had a promising career as a ballerina herself until some injury or another ended her dreams, teaching young dancers instead. Dressed all in black and carrying a walking stick she habitually rapped sharply against the floor to call for attention, she walked with a dancer's grace but there something undoubtedly intimidating about this petite woman. She was much older than the girls she taught, but at least ten years younger than the Ghost she'd protected, the piercing gaze she leveled at Madeleine was unnerving.

"And who are you to ask me to betray him once more?" she demanded.

"Betray him?" Madeleine questioned.

"I have kept his secret for many years now," the other woman replied, "But I told _le vicomte_ where to find him to save the poor girl and the Phantom from himself. Erik, yes, I know his true name, has been good to me and my daughter for years. I can never forgive myself for betraying a man who counted me as a friend. But you have not answered my question."

"I am his mother," the older woman answered.

"His mother?" Mme. Giry gasped, "How-?"

"Mme. Giry, I am pushing seventy years, I was seventeen, not much older than your girls, when I gave birth to him. It is not so impossible that Erik's mother still lives."

It was hard to believe, there were few similarities between mother and son, save those ice blue orbs and the waves of his hair Erik shared with this woman. Mme. Giry longed to know how mother and child had been separated, Erik had told her once that his mother had loathed him, so what she was doing here now? There would be time for that later, the ballet mistress dared not venture below, doing so she would be drawing more attention to herself than she wanted. She took up a lantern and lit it before turning to Madeleine.

"I will show the way but only as far as I dare go," she said, "From there, I will tell you where to go, but you are on your own."

So the two women with Lefevre in tow ventured down, deep into the depths into the belly of the Opera, down into the fifth cellar and onto the lake. Erik himself had suggested it be made when construction on the building had ceased upon discovery of this underground tributary. Handing Lefevre the lantern, Mme. Giry directed them to a lone gondola that floated serenely by the narrow ledge they stood on.

"Take the boat, straight down the lake," she directed them, "You will see a little pier, step off there, the entrance is well hidden, camouflaged like the wall around it, but it is a short straight walk from the pier. There's a metal ring, most think nothing of it, grasp it and pull hard, the door will open. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes just in case, at all times, do not lower it or it may spell your doom."

The pair did as the ballet mistress bade them, floating down the lake, Lefevre clumsy with the punt he was using to direct them, before coming to the little pier and tying off the boat. Lefevre found the metal ring, grasping it, and yanked with all his strength, grunting with effort before the door finally yawned open.

"Go on, Madeleine, I'll stay here and make sure we are not discovered."

"Who would discover us?"

"Did you not notice the _Sourete _milling about around the opera house?"

"I'd wondered why they were there…"

"They are still keeping watch for the Phantom. Now, go, I will stay, and keep your hand at the level of your eyes."


	4. And Found

Cautiously, Madeleine entered, her hand held at the level of her eyes though for what reason she didn't understand, holding aloft a second lantern they'd found on the little boat and had lit. The room she'd entered was pitch dark, a darkness the likes of which she'd never experienced, her eyes could never adjust to anything that lay beyond her humble beam of light. A glint of something caught her attention, a pair of glowing orbs staring back at her from the darkness and moments later a cat appeared, the cream coat and dark brown markings clearly unlike any she'd ever seen before. A diamond collar around the slender neck glinted in the darkness as the animal uttered a low groan as a warning before stalking off to where it'd come from. Madeleine aimed her lantern in the cat's direction, the beast mewing softly as it nudged the alabaster hand the lamplight revealed. She drew closer, lifting the lantern higher, the glow coming upon a still male form on the floor, waving black tresses disheveled and caked in blood, the white gloves on his hands ripped with blotches of red. He lay on his front, his outstretched hand scant inches from a white object on the floor: a half-mask, as though he'd been reaching for it when he fell unconscious. What was clearly an expertly tailored dress coat was torn in various places, ruined, the white dress shirt beneath stained with red, a pool of crimson soaked in the Persian rug that covered the floor. Kneeling beside him, she gently placed a hand on his back, expecting to find him dead, but she could feel the rapid beating of his heart struggling to keep his body alive, the sharp intake of breath as his lungs struggled for air. He was still alive, but barely.

Feeling was slowly and painfully returning, bringing with it the realization that the mob, thirsty for blood and revenge, had failed to beat him into oblivion, though that was undoubtedly their goal. Could those damn fools do nothing right? A soft warm sensation against his bare cheek, his deformed cheek, broke through those thoughts, reminding him of the precious Siamese he'd shared his home with for so long. How could he be so selfish as to forget about the only lady who loved him unconditionally even unmasked, his dear little Ayesha? Without him, she may very well starve to death, though she may not, felines were notoriously independent, but it was a chance he couldn't ponder over. As his senses returned to him, he became aware of something else, some sound beside Ayesha's purrs and occasional mew, a voice softly calling his name.

"Erik?" it said, "Erik?"

Finally he found his voice as he slowly opened his eyes, "Christine…?"

Only his left eye could fully open, the right was so badly bruised it'd swollen shut, but as his vision cleared and the owner's face swam into view, it was clearly not his angel. She was much older than Christine, still lovely, but surely even more so when in her youth, he had no idea who she was, a fact that bothered him. A complete stranger had found their way into his home, an intruder was in his lair, why had the alarms not gone off? If he had the strength to move, if every fiber of his being were not screaming in agony from the beating he'd taken, he'd be wringing this woman's neck!

He was in terrible shape, the extent of his injuries was beyond Madeleine's comprehension as she had little anatomical or medical knowledge, but she knew by looking at him that he was lucky to have survived it. The malformed right side of his face had taken most of the damage, making the deformities all the more grotesque, his right eye so badly swollen it wouldn't open. She gasped when the left eye opened, seeing the same ice blue as her own staring back at her, alight with a fury she was sure would be murderous had he been in any condition to move. How could she have never seen it, was she truly so vain she'd missed it? The dark hair jet like his father's, the perfectly formed left side of his face bearing a strong resemblance to Charles, his eyes and the waves so much like hers. Blood trickled from his mouth, his malformed lower lip split, his face so badly bruised it was difficult to discern the true pallor of his skin, had he a nose to speak of it would probably have been broken.

"Oh, Erik," she gasped, tears springing to her eyes.

A look of shock replaced the fury in his eyes, "How- how do you know my name?"

Clearly, he didn't recognize her, how could he? It had been over forty years since he last saw her, she barely recognized him, the hair she'd kept short hung past his shoulders, though still long and thin, he was now nearly as tall as his father had been.

"Erik," she breathed, "It's me, your mother."

"Mother…?" he muttered, disbelief in his eyes that was quickly replaced by rage, "What are you doing here? What the hell do you want? WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

His outburst was interrupted by a coughing fit, blood coating his lips, a shaking hand coming up to cover his mouth until the fit passed, his hand and head falling limp. A gasp of dismay leapt to Madeleine's lips as she saw the fresh blood covering the palm of his glove.

Madeleine gently grasped Erik's shoulder to roll him onto his back, expecting him to be heavier than he actually was so was surprised to find how little effort it required to move him. He was still conscious, his lips moving in barely audible utterances namely concerning why she was here and how could she have possibly discovered his hideaway.

"Erik?" she muttered, lightly cupping his face, "Erik, are you still with me?"

"Yes, damn my luck," he replied, "I'm still here. Bloody fools couldn't even do me the courtesy of putting me out of my misery. But I'm still with you, for all the good it does. Sorry to disappoint."

Was he always so sarcastic and fatalistic? She took a pillow from the leather couch that stood by a wall and placed it under his head in what must have been a vain attempt at making him comfortable.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Because I care, Erik," she answered.

"Don't lie to me," he muttered, venom clear in his voice, "I'm much too old for fairy tales."

"It is no fairy tale," she replied.

"You don't care, not truly."

"And what would you call it?"

"Guilt. Plain and simple, you don't truly care, you just feel guilty."

"Those wounds need to be cleaned."

"Bathroom, through my chambers, there're towels and medical supplies in the chest there."

"Medical supplies? Erik, you're badly wounded beyond what I can do myself."

"Well, what do you expect to do? Fetch a doctor? I can look after myself, I've done it before."

"Have you now?"

"Surely you're not naïve enough to think this is the first time I've been beaten."

She said nothing, despite how she'd once loathed him, she hated to think of how he'd been hurt in the past and how many times he might previously have been beaten. She looked around for the door to his private room, eyes lighting upon one across the room and she made her way towards it.

"Do NOT open that door!" he called, the murderous rage again in his eyes, "Not there! The door, by the organ, there's a switch inside just by the door frame, left side."

She made her way to the organ he directed her to, opening the door and flipping the switch, shocked when the room lit up, before making her way to the bathroom at the opposite side. She had little trouble finding the towels and supplies he'd mentioned but what caught her eye was the morphine, there was more than was necessary for medicinal use. She forced it from her mind, his current state was more pressing, carrying what she'd found back to the main room where he lay, eyes closed and lips moving as he ran his fingers over his torso.

"Erik?" she knelt beside him, "What are you doing?"

"Merely assessing the damage," he muttered.

Madeleine set the supplies beside him, reaching out to unbutton his bloodied dress shirt until he pushed her hands away and insisted on doing things himself. With his life, he was accustomed to taking care of himself and his stiff-necked pride kept him from accepting help even from his mother. She'd been ready to help him in any way she could until he snapped at her so she settled for sitting back and watching him tend to his own wounds best he could given the pain he was in. He sighed, letting his head fall back on the pillow, realizing that with the pain and severity of his injuries he couldn't possibly see to everything himself. He glanced over at his mother, the last person he wanted to ask help from, her eyebrows raising expectantly, knowing what he wanted but refusing to do it until he asked. Some things never changed.

"Mother," he said, clearly uncomfortable with the mere concept of requesting aid, "I… need help… please."

"I thought as much," she answered, moving closer to help, "Just tell me what I'll need to do."

So she set to work, Erik giving directions as necessary as he nursed his bruised pride even as she tried to make conversation while she worked until he snapped at her…again. Clearly he was fiercely independent yet at the same time he needed someone to take care of him, her grown son was an enigma, a walking contradiction in so many ways.

"So, Erik," she made one last attempt at an actual conversation beyond his directions, "How have you been otherwise?"

"Mother…" he groaned warningly, "I am not nor have I ever been what you would call social. So while I appreciate the gesture," clearly he did not, "do refrain from further attempts at polite conversation. We have always existed in a state of… mutual disdain, let's not disrupt the natural flow of that. And do not try to patronize me like a child, I know you have no love for me, I am certainly not naïve enough to believe otherwise. I'm aware of…"

"Erik. I don't suppose you have some kind of adhesive lying about?"

"In my laboratory somewhere, I'm sure, why?"

"So that perhaps I can ensure your mouth stays shut since clearly you're having difficulty doing it yourself."

Oh yes, some things never change… the ever volatile relationship between mother and son for example.


End file.
